


against the dying of the light

by lacking, lookforanewangle



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Character Study, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Gen, Greek Mythology - Freeform, Ignores clone theory, Mind Rape, Orpheus and Eurydice Myth, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Shiro (Voltron)-centric
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-13
Updated: 2018-04-17
Packaged: 2019-04-22 05:01:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 9,324
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14301354
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lacking/pseuds/lacking, https://archiveofourown.org/users/lookforanewangle/pseuds/lookforanewangle
Summary: You cannot have them,the alien says again.They are not yours.Shiro dares to lift his eyes, pushing past the new wave of nausea that rises up when he forces himself to look at the alien’s horrible, twisted face. “They’re not yours, either.”Existing outside the laws of reality, an alien takes the paladins hostage when they inadvertently stumble into their realm. Shiro makes a deal to win the others back, agreeing to walk to the ends of the creature’s domain, unaware of the trials he'll be faced with along the way. The terms are simple: if he succeeds he may take whatever he wishes, but if he refuses to go on or can be tempted into looking back, his friends will vanish and be lost to him forever. [Inspired by the myth of Orpheus and Eurydice.]





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This fic was written for the Whisper Bang, a collab project breathed to life by a wonderful little discord server with lots of big, awesome ideas. Big thank you goes out to the amazing [lyssartandstars](https://lyssartandstars.tumblr.com/) who created [some incredibly stunning artwork for this story.](https://lyssartandstars.tumblr.com/post/172943509987/i-know-im-like-three-days-late-but-i-had-the) It's absolutely beautiful and I could not love it more!

Ojiisan told him the story, reading aloud from the old, musty book Takashi found buried in the bottom of the wooden chest that sat in the spare bedroom. It had been covered in dust and almost too heavy for Takashi to lift, nearly making him topple over when he first heaved it up into his arms, small fingers cutting through the thick layer of grime that coated the front cover. Takashi was already better at reading than most of the other kids in his class, but he hugged the book tight to his chest and carried it downstairs to show Ojiisan anyways, asking if they could read it together. He liked the sound of Ojiisan’s voice, the soft, rolling lilt of his faded accent, the care he took in shaping words.

Ojiisan frowned. He’s was an organized and tidy man, and Takashi’s shirt was wrinkled and messy, twisted at the hem and smeared with dust. With a sigh, Ojiisan took the book from him, retrieving a towel from beneath the sink to wipe down its surface, peering at the title from behind the gleam of his round glasses. His eyes narrowed, the edges of his mouth pulling tight, though his expression softened when he glanced back at Takashi, watching with fondness as he squirmed on the spot, rocking up onto his toes with excitement.

“Later,” Ojiisan promised, turning the towel over in his hand and wiping the clean corner across Takashi’s noise. “But no more exploring for today.”

They saved the book for bedtime, and it was then that Ojiisan told him it belonged to Takashi’s mother.

“She took a class on mythology in school and practically begged me not to throw away any of her textbooks,” he said, tapping a finger against the corner of a yellowed page. “Always said she would come back and sort through them eventually.”

He was smiling as he spoke, but not in a way that made him look happy. Takashi couldn’t remember his mother very well, recalling her only in bits in pieces: soft hair and thin wrists, dark eyes that flashed with specks of grey. He didn’t know what to do with the uncomfortable way his stomach twisted when Ojiisan spoke of her, so he sunk low into his bed, pulled the blanket up to his nose, and asked his grandfather if he would read to him.

The book wasn’t just a single story, but a mixture of different myths and legends. The one Ojiisan chose was about a man on a quest to save his dead wife. He ventured into hell and played music for the god of the underworld so sweetly that they allowed him to take his wife back so long as the man walked out of hell without turning around to look at her. It wasn’t a _bad _story, but it was strange and surprising, lacking in the happy ending Takashi had come to expect. He asked__ Ojiisan at least three times if he was sure there wasn’t more after he finished, scrunching his nose unhappily when Ojiisan started to laugh.

“You didn’t like it?” Ojiisan asked, marking the page with his finger as he closed the cover.

Takashi shook his head.

“Why?”

“Because he ruined it. He looked back too soon.”

“Mm.” Ojiisan took off his glasses, hooking them into the collar of his shirt. “Some things are difficult to wait for. I think I feel sorry for him.”

“I don’t! He was stupid.”

Ojiisan lifted his eyebrows. He didn’t like that word.

“I mean…” Takashi looked down at his fingers, worrying at a stray thread that had come loose from his blanket. “I feel sorry for his wife. She’s the one who’s trapped.”

“He tried to help her.”

Takashi puffed up his chest, frowning at his grandfather. He tried, but he also failed, and to Takashi that seemed far more significant.

Ojiisan pushed back his chair, smoothing a hand over Takashi’s hair before reaching for the lamp on the bedside table, turning it off with a click as he stood. “I think this may be a good thing for you to learn, Takashi. You can’t always help everyone.”

It’s likely that Takashi was still entirely too young for that lesson, but Ojiisan, though not unkind, had never believed in telling half-truths. To his credit, Takashi would go on to remember that moment in near perfect clarity well into adulthood, the sudden fall of darkness accompanied the warm touch on the crown of his head, the comforting sound of his grandfather’s voice.

Ojiisan was wrong, Takashi decided, though he kept that to himself.

 

 

 

By Coran’s estimation they lose communication with the others approximately forty-five ticks after they reach the Kepler Belt. Shiro doesn’t notice when it happens, his attention narrowed down to Galra fighters streaking across the Black Lion’s viewscreen, the smooth slide of the controls beneath his hands. Kolivan had warned him that there could still be active fleets within the area, but the Blade’s estimation of the Empire’s numbers had been off. The mistake nagged at Shiro. Had he known he'd be facing so many ships on his own, he wouldn’t have been so quick to propose splitting up the team.

Black hums inside his head, an undeniable, stubborn sense of pride pulsing through the bond. Shiro is allowing himself to be distracted by nonsense --they’ve had worst odds, together. She offers a whisper of guidance, urging Shiro to wait another three ticks before firing off, to ease back and circle around for a better vantage point instead of flying directly into the fray.

“Shiro,” Coran says, his voice tinny and hollow on the comms. The Castleship hovers just outside the reach of the melee, firing off blasts from the main cannon whenever Shiro leaves enough of an opening. “I think we have a problem.”

Shiro isn’t listening. The fighters rushing towards him suddenly bank, swinging around like a flock of birds and effectively breaking their attack formation. Shiro kicks on the reverse thrusters, leaning back in his seat as he watches the fleet veer off towards the Galra warship at top speed, seemingly preparing for a retreat.

“Shiro!”

“Yeah,” Shiro says. “Sorry, something strange is happening. The Galra--”

“--are preparing to leave. Let them.”

“When have you ever known the Galra to just pull back?”

“I would say we have more pressing matters, at the moment. I’ve lost contact with the other paladins.”

“What?” Shiro reaches out to flip through the communication channels, cranking the dial clockwise before winding it all the way back, coming up with nothing but static. “Did they reach the meeting point?”

“I believe so. At least, the last transmission was only a few ticks out from the Kepler Belt.”

“No one’s activated their distress beacon,” Shiro says, mostly to himself as he scans through the Black Lion’s systems. “Team Voltron, do you copy? Guys?”

“Maybe there’s a problem with their communicators,” Coran suggests, though he sounds doubtful.

“How far off is Kepler?”

“With no wormhole? Shouldn’t take more than a varga.”

Still longer than Shiro would like. Gritting his teeth, he lets his eyes focus beyond the readouts scrolling across the Black Lion’s screen, watching as the Galra fleet pushes further and further into deep space.

Rendezvousing to the Kepler Belt had been the backup plan. The Empire seemed to actively avoid the area, something Pidge attributed to the strange makeup of the asteroid field. The best she could tell it was composed of elements that worked to scramble the Galra’s systems, making it impossible for them to navigate whenever they ventured within range. Keith wasn’t even meant to be on the mission, but joined them in his own small vessel at practically at the last minute, insisting that he didn’t need a lion in order to guide a group of refugees to a new planet.

“It would still kinda help though,” Lance had pointed out, though he didn’t actually seem unhappy at the prospect of Keith accompanying them. Privately, Shiro suspected Lance missed having someone he could poke at and bicker with.

“There’s a smaller squadron situated on Yonar’s moon,” Shiro said, placing a mark on the galaxy map with a tap of his finger. “Keith and Hunk, that's on you. Allura, Lance, and Pidge, that leaves you to take care of everyone on Viran while Coran and I check on the remains of Sikar’s fleet.”

“You sure you shouldn’t have a little more support?” Hunk asked, shrugging sympathetically at Coran’s put-upon sputter. “I mean, the Castle’s powerful, but--”

“The fleet’s on the edge of the system and they only have a handful of ships left, according to their last report,” Shiro said. “It shouldn’t take long to escort them out.”

The Galra had been aggressive in trying to reclaim the coalition's newest liberated galaxy, and the defences the local inhabitants managed to muster up weren’t going to hold for much longer. The idea was to conduct a series of runs simultaneously in order to get as many people out as possible while at the same time splitting the Galra’s attention and resources. If something happened and the paladin’s were unable to make it back to Olkarian after completing their drop, they were supposed to head towards the Kepler Belt and wait for the others there.

Shiro thinks on this as they travel, keeping an eye on the Black Lion’s speed so he doesn’t leave Coran and the Castleship behind. He reconsiders and reworks the plan, running through a list of all things they should have done instead. Sikar’s fleet had been in battle when Shiro and Coran arrived, and maybe if Shiro had listened to Hunk and brought another paladin along they could have carved out an opening for the fleeing ships sooner, could have dealt with the Galra and gone off to assist Allura’s group more quickly when they first reported they were having problems. Keith and Hunk contacted Coran with a similar message, saying that they weren’t in any immediate danger but didn’t think they could slip away undetected after evacuating the moon. Better to join up with the others, wait until they could form Voltron and escape as unit. It was Shiro they had been waiting on.

Once, when he was still a student at the Garrison, the very idea of the Kepler Belt would have been enough to awe Shiro. Its sheer size is staggering, bracketing over half of the Linsa solar system and stretching out so far it cuts through most of another. Many of the asteroids are nearly as large as the Black Lion, gleaming with a strange, metallic shimmer that looks almost iridescent when the light from the Castle passes over them.

“They’re not here,” Shiro says. He’s flipping through the communication channels again, even checking the frequencies they never use just in case one of the others happen to be connected. He’s not panicking, not yet, but there’s a tightness growing in his chest, an undeniable feeling of dread seeping into his core.

Coran makes a strange sound, both thoughtful and surprised. “These readings are familiar.”

“Readings?”

“From the asteroid field. They’re focused in a rather small area, but…”

The system beeps quietly as Coran transfers information between the Castle and the Black Lion. A marker flashes on Shiro’s viewscreen, hovering above a dense cluster of asteroids.

“It’s faint, but familiar. Very similar to what we picked up from that meteor.”

“You mean the one you found in the alternate universe?”

“Alternate reality,” Coran says primly, and Shiro can practically hear him taking a moment to smooth out his moustache. “But yes.”

“So what are you saying? You think that’s where the others are?”

“It’s possible. When they passed through before we lost all communication and I couldn’t track-- hey! Now wait just a tick, Shiro!”

Shiro eases back on the controls, cutting off the burst from the Black Lion’s thrusters but not veering away as she continues to drift closer towards the belt. “We may not have much time--”

“I said the readings are similar, not an exact match. We don’t know what could happen if you try to pass through. It might not even work, and even if it does we have no way of telling where you might end up.”

“That’s exactly what I’m worried about. The others haven’t come back yet. What if they can’t? If something happened to them?”

“And if you go and get trapped there as well, how will that be helpful?”

Shiro jabs his finger down on a button on his side-console, turning on the video feed to he can turn and look at Coran directly. “What are you suggesting, then? That we sit here and wait? See what happens?”

“No,” Coran says, and Shiro can hear the rough edge of frustration creeping into his voice, see it in the way the fine lines across his brow and cheeks deepen. “I suppose that isn’t an option, either.”

“Is there a way for the castle to follow Black in?”

Coran huffs. “Not without being torn apart, I imagine. The only thing that allowed the others through before was the lions themselves.”

“Well,” Shiro says, holding up an empty hand in a helpless gesture.

“Well,” Coran repeats.

“I’ll find them.”

“I don’t doubt you, Shiro. I just--” Coran cuts himself off, and not for the first time it strikes Shiro how difficult it must be, always having to stay behind whenever the rest of them set out, waiting to see if they’ll return. “Be careful.”

Shiro taps two fingers against his helmet in a salute, letting his mouth curve into something that, hopefully, at least resembles a smile. “I will.”

He urges the Black Lion forward, the readings on his console spiking abruptly as they near the outer edge of the asteroid field. Warning messages flash across the viewscreen in bold, red letters, predicting an inevitable collision, and Shiro swipes them away with a quick flick of his wrist, watching closely for any kind of waver or disruption in the feed that would suggest the presence of some kind of force field or wormhole.

He finds nothing, and only knows that he’s passed through the invisible barrier when the Black Lion rumbles and lurches around him.

A strange sense of weightlessness comes over him, and for a moment Shiro feels sick and disoriented. He presses himself back into his seat, lifting his feet from the pedals and dragging his heels across the floor, trying to catch himself from falling. The oncoming asteroids vanish between one heartbeat and the next, replaced all at once by a barren, orange-tinted tundra stretched out beneath a lilac coloured sky. The shift happens so suddenly that Shiro can barely manage to process it, nausea rolling in his stomach as he curls forward, pounding his hands down against the arms of his chair just to feel something solid pressing up against his palms. The Black Lion purrs reassuringly, nudging at the frazzled edges of his mind. He’s okay. She’s still with him. This strangeness will pass.

Shiro nods, pulling in a slow, measured breath, counting to five before letting it out again. He leans into Black’s presence, letting it buoy him back up.

“Coran?” He says without raising his head, unsurprised when he doesn’t receive an answer. He reaches out, finding the console by touch and flicking the comms back to the main channel. “Team Voltron, can you hear me?”

_Interloper._

Shiro straightens his spine, bolting upright so quickly his helmet cracks against the back of his chair. The greeting doesn’t come through the comms but blooms from the inside his own head, accompanied by a peculiar itching sensation that seems to skitter straight through Shiro’s skull. The Black Lion rumbles, but her presence almost seems muted, impeded upon by something or someone else now vying for Shiro’s attention.

Shiro swallows. “Hello?”

The viewscreen buzzes with static. There’s a figure standing on the ground before the Black Lion that Shiro can’t fully make out. He pinches his fingers together in the air, trying to enlarge the image, but the screen blurs and pixelates, losing focus as it crackles with white noise.

That’s when he feels it: a pull of intent, a hook slipping between his ribs and trying to drag him forward. The sensation is not entirely unlike speaking to the Black Lion, only this presence is strange and unfamiliar and feels, impossibly, more grand.

_Come out. Speak with me._

Shiro hesitates, but the screen doesn’t clear and the pull comes again, stronger this time, more insistent. Shiro wonders if he’s meant to take it as a warning --leave under his own power, or else find himself forced.

The Black Lion snarls, gathering herself and rearing back, preparing to pounce. Shiro breathes out and shakes his head. _Wait,_ he tells her. _Wait, not yet._

“I’ll come out,” he says, twitching uncomfortably at the sheer force of the Black Lion’s resistance. He guides his hands across the controls anyways, lowering her head and opening the hatch.

According to the HUD’s analysis the air on whatever planet Shiro’s been transported to should be breathable, but he still leaves his helmet on and his faceplate down, feeling strangely bolder for it. The ground beneath his feet is dry, covered in a gritty dust that kicks up under his boots when he walks. His footfalls are strangely silent, producing no noise even when he stomps his boot down hard, drags his heels and scrapes his toes.

The figure waits. Shiro is under the impression that they’re watching him approach, though he finds it impossible to tell for sure. The alien has no true face for Shiro to look at, features shifting too quickly for his eyes to follow. One moment he sees a black, swirling cloud in the shape of a person, and then all at once there are yellowed teeth and bulging eyes, gaunt cheeks and curved horns. A second passes by, two, and something else has changed, the alien’s skin warping into dark scales, their mouth widening into a red, gaping maw.

A sharp ache pulses at Shiro’s temples, and he has to look away.

“I’m looking for my friends,” he says, coming to a stop.

_Friends. The alien’s voice shudders through Shiro, a creaking whisper inside his head._

“They came here before me,” Shiro tells them. “Not long ago.”

_Yes. They came as you did: uninvited and unwelcome. They paid the price for their intrusion. You cannot have them._

Fear burns through Shiro, as violent and uncontrollable as wildfire. “They didn’t know. They didn’t mean to--”

_You cannot have them _,__ the alien says again. _They are not yours._

Shiro dares to lift his eyes, pushing past the new wave of nausea that rises up when he forces himself to look at the alien’s horrible, twisted face. “They’re not yours, either.”

The alien tilts their head, their eyes multiplying by the hundreds into pupil-less specks that gleam like blobs of oil. The heat of their anger licks along the soft edges of Shiro’s mind as they offer an unspoken thought, the knowledge that the very act of standing here is a boundary that Shiro never should have been able to cross. This place is not for him. His presence is toxic, a violation of laws forged long ago with entities far beyond Shiro’s limited, _pitiful_ understanding. He is tainted and misplaced, wrong and unwanted.

“Please,” Shiro gasps. He takes a step back, momentarily sickened by the alien’s own feelings of disgust. “You don’t understand. We’re paladins of Voltron, we’re trying to stop the Galra Empire--”

The alien laughs. Shiro flinches, nearly buckling beneath the weight of it. The pain in his temples pulses, and Shiro’s fingers are scrabbling against the hard shell of his helmet before he can stop himself.

_This is meant to convince me? A boast of your petty war?_

“Petty?” Shiro chokes out, saliva flecking against the inside of his faceplate. “The Galra take over galaxies, destroy planets--”

_Their reign means nothing to me._

“It’s not nothing to the people they’ve hurt, whose lives they’ve ruined.”

The alien says nothing, something not unlike confusion passing between them. The sensation makes Shiro’s headache waver before suddenly spiking, white-hot pain flashing behind his eyes. Shiro flinches and shivers, forcing himself to lift his face, sweat catching on his lashes when he blinks, trickling down his brow and the bridge of his nose.

“Are they still alive?” Shiro asks. The words feel heavy, but they threaten to rot on his tongue if he doesn’t speak them.

_You could claim them, if I allowed it._

“Are they alive?” Shiro raises his voice, pressing a hand flat against his chest, over the ‘v’ that marks his armour. “Like me.”

_Yes._

“Then what do you want?”

The alien moves closer. Their form wavers, growing intangible around the edges, and if asked Shiro would be unable to say with any kind confidence whether or not alien is walking or crawling or slithering towards him.

_You believe you are in a position to bargain?_

“I think it’s the only option I have.” Even with the Black Lion standing strong at his back, Shiro has no doubt the alien could tear him apart and crush him into dust if they wished.

A prickling sensation skitters up Shiro’s spine, fanning out across his shoulders and along the back of his neck. He shudders, shrugging as though he could physical dislodge the feeling, but it spreads over his throat and down his arms, buzzing across his tongue and fingertips.

_Paladin,_ the alien muses. _Is that what you call yourself? Or something else?_

Shiro looks up, startled. “What--?”

_Shiro,_ they say. _Takashi, Champion--_

“What do you _want?_ ”

It feels like Shiro’s skin is being rubbed raw, like it’s being peeled back layer by layer, exposing every twitching nerve and hidden weakness and rotten little piece of him. It's all laid bare for the alien to see, to poke at and pod as they wish. Shiro squeezes his eyes shut and sees a flash of violet light behind his lids, claw-tipped fingers reaching out towards him and the bright shine of a whirring saw. Distantly, he’s aware of this knees cracking against the ground, of the low, keening whine now spilling from his mouth.

The creature makes no attempt to hide their intentions, gliding along the surface of Shiro’s thoughts before pressing deeper, struggling momentarily with the Black Lion’s lingering presence before pushing her aside. Shiro grits his teeth, curling forward until his helmet is scraping against the dirt, hands lashing out to grasp at nothing. Resisting the onslaught is like attempting to push back against a crashing wave, and all Shiro can do is hold on and try not to be swept away.

He’s shaking when the alien finally retreats, his hands trembling so violently it takes him three tries to hook his fingers beneath the lip of his helmet, tearing it off over his ears and flinging it aside. He retches, saliva thick and hot on his tongue, abdomen clenching as vomit burns up his throat. He hates throwing up, hates the helpless heave of his stomach and hitching in his chest, and it’s a long time until he’s finished, until his stomach is blessedly empty and the dry heaving subsides.

_Your mind is small. Sensitive._ The alien says. An explanation, given without even the smallest hint of compassion. _You want your friends._

Shiro spits, wiping the back of his glove across his mouth. He feels disgusting, like he's covered in layers of grime and filth, like he wants to dig his nails into his own skin to scrape it off. “Yes.”

_Then this is my offer: you will walk to the end of my realm. Should you succeed, you may take what you wish._

Shiro hesitates. He settles back on his knees and looks over his shoulder, only mildly relieved to see that Black is still there, standing tall and proud and immobile, her glowing forcefield shimmering around her.

"What about the lions?" He asks.

_You may take what you wish_ the alien says again, slower this time, as if speaking to a child. They move aside in clear invitation as Shiro pushes up to his feet, their form flickering when he sways on the spot and stays where he is.

“How far do I have to walk?”

_As far as you need to._

Shiro frowns. He stays where he is.

_I will not cheat you,_ the alien says, the sharp edge of impatience creeping along their words. _There is an end that can be reached._

Shiro looks into the distance, focusing on the long, empty stretch of the horizon. “What’s out there?”

The alien says nothing, and Shiro’s not sure if that’s preferable or not.

“This isn’t a fair deal. I need to know your actual terms.”

The alien’s form darkens, all but radiating irritation. Dark tendrils unfurl around it, twisting through the air and bleeding across the ground. The curl around Shiro’s ankles, licking at his wrists, ice cold even through the plates of his armour.

_If you look back or refuse to go on you will fail, and I will keep what you seek for my own._

Shiro startles, letting out a hiccup of nervous, disbelieving laughter. He thinks of his grandfather’s worn hands cradling his mother’s textbook, the flash of a lightbulb going dark. “Is this a joke? That’s--”

_My terms._

Shiro scrubs a hand over his eyes. His head still hurts, and he realizes that he’s left his helmet behind, rolling back and forth in the dirt like an upturned turtle.

“I want proof that they’re alive,” he says. He wants it to be a command, an ultimatum, but his voice breaks and wavers and betrays him. He needs to know, needs some kind of reassurance--

_No,_ the creature says, the word falling over Shiro like a thunder-crack, ringing in his ears and nearly bringing him back down to his knees. _Go, now, or I will consider our bargain forfeit._

So Shiro rolls back his shoulders, shakes his arms and legs free of the alien's chilled touch, and walks.


	2. Chapter 2

Shiro never liked this story, not when Ojiisan first read it to him and not when he revisited it years later, finding the book slotted into one of the shelves in his grandfather’s den when he returned to pack up the house. He pulled it free and sat down on the floor, legs crossed beneath him as he thumbed through the pages. His mother had written in the margins, messy little notes she then circled and linked back to the text with lines and arrows. Some passages were highlighted and others were marked by tiny, warped stars. Shiro had never bothered reading the book for himself before, and hadn’t known they were there until that moment. The discovery made him feel strange, both pleased by the surprise and a little betrayed that his grandfather had never mentioned the additions.

He thinks of Ojiisan, then, tall and reserved, gentle but with a backbone of steel. _Some things are difficult to wait for_ , he had said, and though Shiro understands that better now than he once did, the stupid myth still gnaws at him, pesters and annoys him when he mulls overs it for too long. He wonders if that’s part of the reason it caught the alien’s attention when they peered inside his head. Maybe they just wanted to see how well Shiro would fair when forced to play out a story that he hates.

Without his helmet Shiro has no way of knowing how much time has passed or how far away from the Black Lion he’s traveled. The scenery around him is dull and unchanging, a flat tundra stretched out beneath a bruised sky with nothing on the horizon for him to focus on or aim towards. In the story, Eurydice followed Orpheus as a spirit, and Shiro wonders if the others are trailing behind him, too, silently retracing his footsteps as he walks. The thought brings with it a nagging itch between his shoulder blades, a whispered desire to turn around and check.

“You’re all running laps after this,” Shiro says. A seed of hope takes root in his chest that he might receive some kind of answer in return, a huff of laughter or muttered curse or perturbed, bitten off grumble.

"Takashi?"

Shiro stumbles, the toe of his boot catching against a stray rock. His breath leaves him in a rush, heart hammering hard against his ribs. The voice doesn’t belong to any of his friends, but knows it all the same. It's been a long time since he last heard it -- _years_ , but he knows.

"Takashi. It is you."

Shiro’s moving before he’s even aware of it, shifting his weight from one leg to the other as he begins turning on his heel. He catches himself just before it happens, squeezing his eyes shut and clenching his teeth together so tightly his jaw aches. No, this isn't possible. It’s a trick, a test. It has to be.

Shiro keeps walking.

"I thought you were dead," Ojiisan says.

 _You’re dead,_ Shiro thinks. He feels sick again, his stomach clenching with a sharp spike of pain.

Ojiisan didn’t live long enough to see Shiro graduate from the Garrison, passing away right in the middle of Shiro’s midterms during the second semester of his third year. They hadn’t spoken in nearly a month when it happened, not because they were angry at one another but because Shiro had been too busy to pick up the phone and take his grandfather’s calls, to send him a text message or an e-mail.

"You seem taller, somehow,” Ojiisan says. “The way you're holding yourself... it's different.”

“Stop,” Shiro tells him. “Go away.”

“Takashi,” Ojiisan scolds, and for a moment Shiro feels like a child again. Ojiisan always did insist on good manners.

“You’re dead,” Shiro snaps, practically spitting out the words. It almost helps, saying it aloud.

“Am I?” Ojiisan sounds amused.

“I went to your funeral,” Shiro says. “Gave your eulogy, packed up your home by myself--”

“It was your home too, Takashi. You should have kept it. I would have liked it, if you did.”

“I couldn’t live there.” Shiro’s making a mistake, letting himself be drawn in like this, but he finds he can’t help himself. “It’s too far away from the Garrison. It wouldn’t make sense.”

“After you graduated--”

“I’d be going on missions, traveling--”

Ojiisan sighs, a sad, drawn out sound, and Shiro can't help but wonder what he would see if he did turn around, if some form of his grandfather would actually be there to greet him.

“I wish you never enrolled, Takashi.”

Shiro has to laugh. “My grandfather would never say that to me.”

“Oh? You think this is what I would want for you? After all you’ve been through...”

“You don’t know anything about what I’ve been through.”

“I wanted you to be happy. I wanted--”

“Fuck you,” Shiro says, quiet and cold, fingers clenching up tight into his fists. “I’m not doing this. Leave me alone.”

But he doesn’t.

Ojiisan’s voice follows him, talking of Shiro’s childhood, how clever he was in school and how much he loved space and science and the stars. He describes how small Shiro looked when he first took him in, how hard he used to cling to his hand and how quiet and miserable he used to be until, slowly, he wasn’t.

Shiro stares down at the orange soil, shoulders pulled tight, listing off galaxies in his head, the ones he knew about before he was taken captive followed by the new names he’s learned since becoming a paladin. He tries to recall every single planet that's joined the coalition, the aliens that reside there and the unique skills and technologies they offer. It's not a very good distraction, and he keeps tripping himself up by forgetting which ally joined at what time, his thoughts sliced to ribbons by the constant flow of his grandfather’s steady, confident voice.

When Ojiisan does fall silent it’s sudden, happening practically mid-sentence. Shiro frowns, slowing his steps without stopping.

“Hello?”

A pause, lasting just long enough to make Shiro believe he might really be alone again.

“Takashi,” his mother breathes.

Shiro freezes. He blinks, the horizon swimming in and out of focus as his eyes burn.

"Takashi.” His mother’s voice breaks, a wet sob ripping through Shiro’s name.

"God,” Shiro croaks. He starts moving again, quicker now, stumbling over nothing before catching himself. “What are you-- why are you doing this?"

"What are you talking about? Takashi, please, won’t you at least look at me?”

Shiro shakes his head, a hysterical burst of laughter spiraling out his mouth. He claps a hand over it, teeth scraping against the hard material of his glove.

He runs.

 

 

 

Shiro keeps going long after he manages to leave the voices behind, running until he’s gasping and dizzy, wobbling dangerously on his legs as he stumbles to a stop. He curls forward, coughing as he drops his hands to his knees, sucking in one tight breath after another. Sweat drips from his nose and the point of his chin, speckling the dry ground, and even though Shiro feels like he’s going to be suffocated by his own body heat, the cooling system in his suit has yet to kick on.

Shiro presses the back of his metal fingers up against his cheek, knuckles lying along the jagged edge of his scar. He’s thankful, that his prosthetic is still at least a little cold to the touch. Fighting down the urge to start stripping away pieces of his armour, Shiro closes his eyes, counting down as he tries to control the sputtering rhythm of his breaths, telling himself it’s alright, he’s fine, they’re gone now.

“I’m not stopping,” he says. A spool of anger threatens to unwind inside his chest, ready to twist itself into a thick, gnarled knot that Shiro will have to claw at until his fingers are bloody in order to tear free. He gives into it, just for a moment, straightening his spine and tilting up his face.

“Hey!” He shouts. The sky is beginning to darken, taking on a vivid, indigo colour. “Do you hear me? I’m not!”

No answer. But then, Shiro’s probably better off without one.

Shivering a little as the adrenaline drains away, he starts moving again, keeping his footsteps slow and even. He reaches for his hip, fumbling at the pressure release in the suit and opening up the small, shallow compartment hidden inside the bulk of his armour. He finds the canteen tucked away there by touch, weighing it in his hand as he lifts it free. Listening to the sloshing sound it makes as he tilts it back and forth, Shiro estimates there’s no more than a mouthful of water left, maybe two. He takes a careful sip, just enough to wet his tongue, and puts the canteen away again.

Shiro’s hands are still shaking. He curls them into fists, crossing his arms tight over his chest and leaving them there as he walks.

Little by little, the environment around him begins showing signs of change. The orange soil darkens, turning brown and thick and damp, sticking to the tread of Shiro’s boots in such heavy clumps he has to keep stop in order to scrape them clean. Small, twiggy shrubs spring up across the landscape, growing steadily larger until Shiro’s walking by saplings and underneath trees. They start appearing grouped together in dense clusters, forcing Shiro to deviate from his path in order to avoid them, eyeing at the sharp points of their leafless branches as he wanders by. But the clusters expand in size, too, and soon Shiro finds himself standing at the edge of what appears to be a forest. His eyes dart back and forth, but he can’t spot any sort of opening that would lead him around, and he’s too frightened to turn his head for a better look, not wanting to catch a glimpse over his shoulder by mistake.

He steps into the trees.

The world around him darkens, much of the remaining sunlight blotted out by the mangled canopy of branches tangled overhead. Shiro activates his arm, holding it up like a torch as he tries to pick out some kind of path among the rotted logs and mushroom encrusted boulders scattered around him. There’s a spongy feeling beneath his feet, and when he peers down he sees that he’s no longer walking on dirt but layers upon layers of soft roots and vines.

The forest grows thicker the further in he goes, branches catching against Shiro’s armour as he tries to push through, thorn-like tips scratching at its surface. He trips over a twisted knot of roots, and when he looks up again spies a webbing of vines strung up through the trees in front of him, hanging down towards the forest floor like a curtain. They’re low enough to skim along Shiro’s shoulders and the top of his unprotected head as he walks beneath them, and when he pauses for too long they almost seem to move, somehow curling around his shoulders and upper arms. They’re easy enough to dislodge, but still make Shiro feel anxious and claustrophobic. He takes to cutting through them with his prosthetic hand preemptively whenever one happens to be within reach.

A whisper of sound catches on the wind, but Shiro doesn’t stop moving to try and decipher what it is. He knows the alien’s tricks now, and braces himself for the rough baritone of his grandfather’s voice, the catching sobs of his mother’s pleas.

The hot breath on the back of his neck catches him by surprise, as does the soft, skittering vibration of clawed fingers scratching against the hard shell of his armour.

“Champion,” Haggar croons.

Shiro jerks, staring straight ahead into the dark cluster of trees before bolting forward, snapping the vine that’s just begun curling around his wrist. He barely manages to take another two steps before another root seemingly peels itself upwards from the ground, looping around his ankle and nearly pulling his leg straight out from under him.

“Are you running from me?” Haggar asks, her voice creaking in his ear. Shiro flinches, a violent action that almost makes him fall a second time, panic beating against his ribs like a drum. _She’s not here,_ he tells himself. _She’s not._

He reaches down, fumbling at he tries to find the root by touch, fingers scraping against its ropey surface. He activates his prosthetic, searing straight through it in seconds, and the scent it emits is rancid, so overpowering it makes him gag. There’s a sourness to the smell, a sickly heat that turns his mind back to Zarkon’s prison, cramped cells housing too many bodies, festering wounds and decay.

A hand snakes over his shoulder, Haggar’s claw-tipped fingers scraping over the surface of his suit, nicking at the exposed skin of his throat. Shiro chokes and and twists away, reaching behind himself blindly to try and strike her, his hand meeting nothing but air.

“Do you really believe that creature will keep its promise?” Haggar asks. “That you will win back your precious paladins?”

A shadow flickers at the corner of Shiro’s eye. He grabs at a branch blocking his path with his prosthetic hand, crunching it beneath his fingers before throwing it behind him. Every instinct he has is screaming at him to stand his ground, to turn around and _fight_. His skin feels tight, prickling with sweat, and he flinches at the rasping sound of Haggar’s wicked laughter.

“They’re not here,” she promises. “There’s no one following you but me.”

Shiro forces his way through another cluster of branches, snapping his head to the side when he feels one drag sharply across his cheek, and abruptly stumbles to a halt. Another step and he’ll be free of the forest, but the new path resting before him is unsettlingly familiar and completely out of place. The toes of Shiro’s boots crest the very edge of a dark room, shrouded in shadows and illuminated only by a single dim light hanging down from the centre of the ceiling, swinging back and forth ominously over a steel operating table.

Shiro knows this place, sees it etched out behind his closed lids sometimes when he hovers on the edge of sleep. This is where he met Ulaz. Maybe it’s where he met Haggar, too.

“You could still turn back,” she tells him, softly, as though she’s being kind, and Shiro’s hatred for her burns, so venomous and sudden in its intensity it leaves him reeling. He wants to spin around, to wrap the hand she gave him over her throat and squeeze until her muscles go loose and lax, until her trachea crunches beneath his fingers.

There’s a door on the far side of the room, outlined faintly by a dark, violet glow. Even with a goal in sight, it takes Shiro a moment longer to urge himself to move, shoulders hitching at the metallic sound of his boots tapping against the floor.

He knows this isn’t real, knows it’s nothing more than a nightmare lifted from the inside of his own head, but the knowledge does nothing to quell the sudden spike of terror that leaps into his chest, doesn’t stop his entire body from trembling as he walks. _Stupid,_ he tells himself. _Stupid, stupid, you’re fine--_

He’s not paying enough attention, keeping his head down as he hurries along, and his elbow knocks against one of the trays mounted next to the table, rattling knives and needles, forceps and a small, sharp pair of scissors. Shiro grabs at the edge of the platter, trying to quiet the sound on instinct, and nearly jumps back when he blinks and catches sight of a figure stretched out on the table that couldn’t have been there just a moment ago.

It’s him, younger and more whole, with dark hair and two arms still made of flesh and bone. His wrists and ankles are strapped down, and there’s a muzzle pulled over his mouth and nose, smeared with old, crusted blood, digging into his skin. He looks up at Shiro, eyes wide and gleaming with confusion and terror, making a muffled noise as he lifts his head from the table, yanking hard at the restraints.

Shiro shoves the tray aside completely, letting it tip over and fall to the floor with a clatter. He reaches for the straps, prosthetic hand burning with light--

“Don’t touch him,” Haggar snarls. “This is not what you came here for.”

Shiro stiffens, his arm lifted and ready to strike, staring down into the prisoner’s sad, bruised eyes. He doesn’t know if that’s meant to be a warning or not.

Haggar says, “You have taken too long already.”

“What?”

“They are growing impatient.”

“Time was never part of the deal.”

Haggar says nothing.

“This is bullshit,” Shiro says, voice rising, taking on a frayed edge. “Just another part of your game.”

“Will you help him, or continue on?”

The prisoner twists and groans, heels drumming against the table, fingernails scraping over its smooth surface.

“I can do both,” Shiro says, desperate, pleading.

Haggar hums, as if considering, but Shiro can hear the smile in her voice when she tells him, “No.”

Shiro sneers. He almost brings his hand down anyways just to spite her, to show this phantom how powerless they truly are. But then he thinks of his friends, waiting for him, _relying_ on him, and knows he can’t risk it.

He deactivates his arm. The figure strapped to the table wails, struggling wildly against their restraints, lifting their head and smashing it back down against the table as they try to rip themselves free.

Shiro stares, rooted to the spot and transfixed by the prisoner’s suffering. He only moves again when Haggar reminds him to hurry.

“I’m sorry,” Shiro says. She’s right. He has to go, has to go _now_ or he won’t be able to bring himself to. “I’m sorry, I’m so sorry, I can’t help you--”

The door slides open as he approaches, blinding Shiro with a flash of white light. He throws up his hand, shielding his eyes as he pushes on, and the sound of Haggar’s laughter and the prisoner’s sobbing, muffled shrieks follow him through.

 

 

 

Shiro falls.

The drop is short and sudden, not unlike missing a step when descending down a flight of stairs. His foot doesn’t land on solid ground but sinks deep into a patch of mud, disrupting his balance and throwing him forward. He lands on his elbows in a pool of murky, shallow water, spitting out a rancid mouthful and choking on the splatter that manages to slip down his throat.

Shiro coughs and spits, shaking his head as he pushes up onto his knees, damp bangs sticking to his brow. He’s in what appears to be a swamp, sitting in the middle a puddle of muck, surrounded by a fog so thick his hand practically vanishes when he stretches his arm out in front of his face.

The noise behind him has stopped, and Shiro should be thankful, should be relieved he can no longer hear the screaming. Instead, he just feels tired.

He pushes up to his feet, licking at his dry, cracked lips as his stomach clenches with hunger. He takes out the canteen again, drinking the rest of the water and swishing it around in his mouth before swallowing. He wonders how long it’s been since he and Coran first approached the Kepler Belt. Hours? A day? His legs are sore and he’s so exhausted he feels like he could fall asleep even standing upright on his feet. But what else is there for him to do, but go on?

He walks, mud sucking at his boots each time he lifts up his foot, water lapping at his ankles and waist before receding back to his knees. His suit is smeared with grime, and it’s beginning to gather in a crust at the soft spots of his armour, making it more and more difficult for him to move as his joints stiffen and seize. His foot slips on the soft, uneven ground beneath the water, and with his knee locked in place he ends up toppling over, falling face first into the sludge.

He curses, wiping the mud out of his eyes as he gets back up. It would be a lie, to say that some small part of him doesn’t want to just roll over onto his back and stay there, but Shiro would sooner resort to dragging himself along on his belly than give into that desire.

It’s almost a relief, when the voices come again. It’s better, Shiro thinks, to just get this part over with.

“Shiro!”

The outcry doesn’t surprise him, doesn’t make him flinch or shiver or stop. He jolts a little, as if waking from a dream, blinking and bleary eyed, unsure if he’s still heading in the right direction when all he can see is the swirl of white mist and black water.

The shout rises up again. Pidge’s voice sounds strained, almost as if she’s been yelling for some time.

“Shiro, you have to stop!”

Shiro blinks. The call doesn’t seem to be reaching him from over his shoulder, but erupting instead at a point far off in the distance.

“Please,” Lance says.

“You must listen to us,” Allura tells him.

“It’s a trick,” Hunk chokes out.

Shiro shakes his head. No. This doesn’t mean anything. It’s just a new tactic. It has to be.

“Wait!”

“Stop!”

“You can’t--”

“Listen to us!”

“Shiro,” Keith says. He sounds closer than the others, like he’s standing at Shiro’s side, just far enough away to be obscured by the fog.

“Shut up.”

“You don’t understand, that _thing _is a liar--”__

__“I know that.” Shiro’s throat feels hot and tight. He wipes a hand across his face, leaving a fresh, muddy smear on his cheek._ _

__“No,” Keith says. His voice breaks. “No, Shiro, you need to trust me--”_ _

__Shiro smiles, a twisted and strained thing that shows his teeth. Of course he trusts Keith, but this isn’t Keith he’s speaking to. It can’t be._ _

__Without warning Keith begins to scream, raw and agonized. The others’ voices follow, rising up one by one, each one crying out like they’re being tortured all around him. Shiro gulps for breath, aware on some level he’s tipping over the edge into an outright panic attack. He feels light headed as he takes another step, nearly tripping once more as he claps his hands down over his ears, squeezing his head between his palms until all he can hear it the hollow sound of his own laboured breathing, the pounding of his heart._ _

__“Will you stop now?” Keith asks. Something flickers in the corner of Shiro’s vision, a black tendril made of smoke, gone again when he blinks._ _

__Shrio takes another measured, deliberate step._ _

__“It might be easier,” Keith says. “If you did.”_ _

__“It wouldn’t,” Shiro says, as if to remind himself. That’s not something he does._ _

__As if hearing the thought, the alien asks, “Do you ever wish that you could?”_ _

__And Shiro remembers dark light and the taste of blood in his mouth, the heavy weight of an unfamiliar weapon in his hands. He remembers a hollering crowd and Haggar’s hooked smile, the flash of surgeon’s knife. Keith, standing silhouetted in his doorway: _they need you.__ _

__Shiro opens and closes his mouth, chest hitching. He doesn’t know how to answer that._ _

__A hand falls on his shoulder. Shiro falters, barely registering the weight of it before the fingers grip tight at his armour, forcing him to turn around._ _

__Shiro loses his footing with the momentum. His knee hits the ground with a splash and immediately he’s fumbling, covering his face even as he tries to stand up and twist back around. No, no, no, he has to keep going, he didn’t mean to--_ _

__“Shiro?”_ _

__Not screamed this time but spoken, softly and with care._ _

__Shiro lowers his hand from his eyes._ _

__The others are gathered before him, standing together in a tight cluster with open, confused expressions. Their armour is clean, so white it nearly blends into the fog, and Shiro is so overwhelmingly happy to see them he feels like he could be sick with it._ _

__“I… did I do it?” Shiro asks, the words leaving him in a rush, an anchor of doubt still sitting heavy and immobile in the pit of his stomach. “I-- this is--?”_ _

__“You did it,” Allura assures him, speaking with a confidence that doesn’t match the darting of her eyes, the puzzled tilt of her brows._ _

__Lance shrugs. “I mean, sure? Whatever _it_ is-- whoa!”_ _

__Shiro pushes himself back up, grabbing at whoever’s closest and dragging them in. Keith blinks, his hand still hovering in the air from where it had been set against Shiro’s shoulder. He lets himself be pulled close without resistance, looking up at Shiro, wide-eyed and alarmed._ _

__“Jesus,” Hunk says. “Shiro, what--?”_ _

__Shiro doesn’t let him finish. It doesn’t matter right now, if they understand or not. “Everyone’s okay?”_ _

__“Yeah,” Keith says. He touches Shiro’s elbow. “Yeah, Shiro, we’re good.”_ _

__“Shiro… what’s going on?” Pidge asks. She’s frowning, fingers coming up to rub back and forth across her mouth as she thinks. “We were in the asteroid field, and--”_ _

__“Something happened,” Keith says. He doesn’t look away from Shiro. “We… we met someone, and--”_ _

__“Have we been following you, Shiro?” Lance asks, forming the question slowly. He glances down at his feet, lifting one leg out of the water as if he just noticed he was standing in it._ _

__“Maybe,” Shiro says, and all at once something caught between laughter and a sob bursts past his lips, a hiccup of sound that he tries to swallow down but forces its way out again and again. He keeps his hands on Keith’s shoulders but leans back and bows his head, shaking as the strange noise continues to spill out from his mouth._ _

__“Dude,” Hunk says._ _

__“Sorry,” Shiro gasps. He knows he’s worrying them. “Just-- give me a minute--”_ _

__“You’re crying,” Pidge says, quiet and tentative._ _

__Shiro shakes his head, the back of his neck and the tips of his ears growing warm. He scrubs at his eyes, swallowing hard as the laughter starts to fade. He’s grateful that Keith hasn’t tried to pull away, isn’t sure if he would still be standing if he did._ _

__“I’m just tired,” he tells them. “Look, let’s-- let’s leave. I want to leave.”_ _

__And just like that Shiro finds himself standing in the shadow of the lions, all five towering above with their paws planted firmly in the mud. The Black Lion begins nudging at the edge of Shiro’s mind as soon as she appears, gentle and apologetic, and Shiro reaches back for her without hesitation, clinging to the bond as she lets out a low, soothing purr._ _

__Keith’s shoulder hitches beneath Shiro’s hand and Lance and Pidge both jump, grabbing at one of Hunk’s arms. Allura is a little better at hiding her surprise, fingers twitching, though her eyes remain fixed on Shiro._ _

__“You need to explain this, Shiro,” she says, speaking with resolve but not without sympathy. “We need to know what’s going on.”_ _

__“I will,” Shiro promises. “But later. After.”_ _

__Allura tilts her head, shoulders sloping as she accepts his terms. “Alright.”_ _

__“I’m going with you,” Keith says to Shiro. The ship he took from the Blade hasn’t reappeared, but even if it did, Shiro has no doubt that Keith would be making the same call._ _

__“Let’s go then,” Shiro says. “Coran’s waiting.”_ _

__No one moves._ _

__“Hey Shiro?” Hunk asks. “Do you um… do want a hug, or something?”_ _

__Shiro opens and closes his mouth, teeth clicking together. He doesn’t know how to answer that, unsure if he wants to be caged in by the tangle of the others’ arms, right now, but hesitant to turn them away._ _

__“Okay,” he says._ _

__Privately, Shiro has always found group hugs between them paladins a little uncomfortable. There’s so many of them, and someone always ends up being squeezed too hard or squished into an awkward position. But it’s not so bad, this time, being caught in the centre of his group of friends, their arms crossing over his back and shoulders. There’s a hand in his hair, another cradling the nape of his neck, and Shiro closes his eyes and allows himself to be still for just a moment. They’re here, all of them, and they’re safe. He made it._ _

__“Are you really alright?” Allura asks after they group breaks apart. She keeps her voice low but the sound still carries, and Shiro doesn’t miss it when the others pause, slowing their footsteps as they wander back towards their lions._ _

__Shiro shugs. Nods. Close enough._ _

__The Black Lion’s presence falls over him like balm when he settles into the pilot chair, steady and encompassing. It’s a little like being wrapped and thick, heavy blanket. Like coming home._ _

__Keith stands at his side, hand on Shiro’s shoulder, fingers fanned out so they’re resting against the bare skin of his neck. He keeps it there when the thrusters kick on, swaying with the momentum as Black lifts from the ground._ _

__“I don’t like it when you do that,” Keith says._ _

__“Do what?”_ _

__Keith frowns at him, like the answer should be obvious. “Lie. You’re not okay.”_ _

__Shiro lets his hands slip from the controls, allowing the Black Lion to propel herself upwards and break through the fog. He trusts she knows the way to go._ _

__“I will be,” he says._ _

__And that’s going to have to be enough for now._ _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you enjoyed this story please consider leaving a comment down below with your thoughts! I also have a [tumblr](http://lightshesaid.tumblr.com/) if you wanna say hi over there. Thanks for reading!


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